


Guardians of the Western Gate

by Worts (wortlby2)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ace if you squint, Aspec Friendly, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bookstores, Canon - Good Omens (Book & TV Combination), Constructive Criticism Welcome, Crowley has an elaborate scheme that doesn't come back to bite him in the ass, Gen, Historical Figures, Historical References, Illustrations, It's up to you dear reader, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, Period-Typical Homophobia, Podfic Welcome, Post-Canon, Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Queer Guardian Fallen Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Queer History, Queer Themes, Queers help other queers, Slash if you squint, Slice of Life, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:56:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22276468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wortlby2/pseuds/Worts
Summary: People say there's no such thing as magic, but people say lots of things. People who spend a bit more time observing, rather than talking, know that there's a little corner of Soho where you might find a glimmer.  A circle of kindness that draws people in, centered around an ever so slightly queer antiquarian bookshop.Or: An angel figures out his identity, with a little help from humanity.  A demon hatches his most devious scheme ever with a little help from a spacetime teapot.  And a college student finishes her damn homework, with a little help from both.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 122
Kudos: 273
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. The Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, I want to thank[ Mio](https://www.instagram.com/esmioraa/?hl=en), my wonderful Big Bang art buddy. She is a lovely person all around, and immensely talented. She is illustrating several other fics in this event, so keep an eye out. Please check out her other many-colored dots on Instagram and [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/esmiora?lang=en)
> 
> Many hands do the devil's work and all these folks share a tiny bit of the blame for this fic ;) : 
> 
> My Britpickers:[Skylight Pirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handlebarstiedtothestars/pseuds/handlebarstiedtothestars>%20handlebarstiedtothestars</a>,%20<a%20href=), 11th hour Soho localizer [EdnaV](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV), and especially chocolatecyborg, who spent a long time explaining the UK's school system to me. 
> 
> My early betas/storycoaches: Samtheirdarkreturning and tag-wrangler extraordinaire [StarKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/pseuds/starknight) (a gentleperson and a scholar if I ever met one!)
> 
> And of course my favorite slutty beta: [Robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes), who's helped so many fics become what they are. 
> 
> Thank Someone for the mods who organized this mess and the rest of the fantastic community on the GOBB Discord server. I haven't had so much fun in fandom in years. 
> 
> **Readers:** This fic blends some elements of book and tv canon, but probably not so you would notice if I hadn't just told you. The only important change for the purposes of this fic is that the Apocawasn't happens around 2000-2001. This is to accommodate a certain historical event important to the queer community of Soho. Otherwise you can slot in your preferred headcanons and appearances of the characters as you like. There are 4 chapters, and the 5th will be author's notes and historical annotations. You **do not** have to read these to understand the fic, they exist because I find this stuff interesting and thought other people might too. Pull a chair up to the fire, drink a cup of cocoa, and enjoy!
> 
> **Mio's images look best on a dark background such as Ao3's Reversi skin! For best download results, use epub or mobi format, the footnotes will still work!**

If you were to read _The New Aquarian_ on the regular, you might be forgiven for thinking that magic and miracles are a thing of the deep woods and valleys, far removed from mankind. That indeed, the very presence of man was causing the retreat of such things as stone circles, deep pools, and mysterious rings of mushrooms. You might be forgiven, but would nonetheless be wrong. The haunts of man have their secrets too. Even so young a city as Los Angeles hides magic, harsh as bright sunlight and broken dreams. Ancient Cairo holds so many ghosts that any enterprising medium in the area would quickly find themselves with a queue.

And London. Oh London! Built upon the bones of itself, encompassing the very axis of time, and extending underground beneath the Underground. It’s a city with secrets deep and dark, fierce and fabulous. You’d do well to leave them alone.

Oh, but you still crave magic? Still long for a touch of the fantastic? Well, there are gentler mysteries. Look at the West End. Closer, closer, zoom in on Soho. There is a bookshop there, one of many. All bookshops are magical in their way, but this one is very special. Look closely…

* * *

[ ](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/607437652207075330/671999669781397526/maddy.png)

Maddy sat back on the antique couch and sighed. She would have thought herself far too mature to pout, so it was just as well she had no means of seeing her own face at this moment. She leaned forward to pick up the cup and saucer from the table in front of her. Her evening wasn't going as planned, but at least the tea was excellent.

 _Why did I think that a Middle English Literature module was a good idea?_ She thought ruefully.

The antique couch, excellent tea, and frustrated university student were all located within the walls of A. Z. Fell and Co. Fine Books, a little known gem of Soho. Maddy usually preferred the coffee shop across the street, but sometimes the filtered golden light, faded furniture, and gentle classical music emanating from the gramophone was just the ticket for getting some serious studying done. She also had the vague hope that somehow surrounding herself with all that literature would perhaps result in some of it percolating into her brain, and make this damned essay easier to write.

This not being how...well... _anything_ worked, she really didn't have a lot of ideas for the ten pages on _The Canterbury Tales_ that were due in a few days, despite the strong aura of bookosity in the general vicinity. Still, she considered as she sipped her tea, at least she was stumped in one of her favorite places.

Maddy had discovered the bookshop about a year ago, after a young man in her circle of friends had taken a keen interest in her, and had subsequently refused to take anything along the lines of hints, polite apologies, or stern refusals. She'd pointed out quite reasonably that she wasn't interested, to no avail. She'd pointed out quite logically that he was frankly a bit more male than her preference, to no effect. She'd grown rather tired of pointing things out, since “no” in this context was a complete enough sentence, and should not require thesis, antithesis, and synthesis.

“Give me a chance,” he'd said, profoundly unable to grasp the obvious.

All this had escalated from annoying to alarming when he'd started showing up in her lectures, even for modules he wasn't enrolled in, and coming by the flat when she wasn't around to try and press her roommates for information. It had evolved into terrifying the day she'd been walking in Soho, and caught a reflection of him watching her from the other side of the street in a shop window. He had still been there when she stole a glimpse over her shoulder after putting her head down and walking quickly away in an attempt to escape.

She'd wished she hadn't. Meeting her eyes had spurred him to wave and look about, ready to cross the street and greet her as though he'd met her by chance. Maddy had pretended not to see him and resumed walking as quickly as she could without drawing attention to herself, trying not to panic and turning blindly down one street and then the next in an attempt to lose him in the Friday evening crowds. Rounding a corner, she'd spotted a rust red door flanked by creamy columns, and felt beckoned somehow. She'd rushed across the threshold without looking, scurrying behind a shelf once she was inside, praying she hadn't been seen.

Stupid. He hadn't been that far behind, surely he'd realize where she'd gone...and now she was in a quiet shop with no apparent customers rather than on a crowded street. Still, perhaps she could find a shop assistant and prevail upon them to let her out a back door...

In the end that hadn't been necessary. She'd peeked breathlessly through a window as he came around the corner, looking this way and that. He'd shook his head, confused, and a very uncomfortable look had crossed his face before he'd walked away.

After she'd caught her breath and calmed down a little, Maddy had a chance to take stock of her surroundings, which were mostly made up of stacks of books and interesting knick knacks. She'd wandered the stacks idly, a gentle calm settling over her, like the comforting feeling of a familiar old sofa, with overtones of warm down blanket and piping hot cocoa, extra marshmallows.

She'd been charmed by the Diagon Alley eccentricity of the place, and excited when she'd noticed just how strange and fascinating some of the books were. When she'd discovered the urn in the main room, which never seemed to run out of exquisite tea, she was hooked. Eventually, she'd met the proprietor, Mr. Fell, with his fussy hands and dandelion-tuft hair, and learned that he was a total sweetheart - so long as you didn't take your tea beyond the front room or attempt to buy any of the really rare volumes[1]. They'd had a lovely conversation that she couldn't quite remember and she'd left the shop feeling better than she had in ages.

Many visits later, long after the unceremonious expulsion of her would-be-suitor from her friend group , Maddy stood up with another sigh, teacup still in hand, and began to absently cross the floor to stretch her legs. She ought to have been paying more attention.

“My dear, you have been here often enough to know the rules. Really, Maddy, I'm disappointed.” She started at Mr. Fell's voice, and at his sudden appearance in front of her, feather duster in hand, now being flourished rather sternly towards the hand-written sign with the words…

[ ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/057d2840682805514b4d34607b40576b/8c5392348c4f3a78-55/s540x810/0e668995f8f6af3d791b0c9512287972fde0464e.png)

...written on it. It was hanging by the entryway to the room she'd just been about to cross into.

“Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Fell, I was distracted.” She put the cup and saucer down hurriedly on a small table nearby that miraculously did not have any books on it. Mr. Fell's sweet face could somehow conjure a glare that made you feel well and truly glared at, it was his best magic trick, and she didn't want to be on the receiving end of it.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Oh...trying to write an essay. Chaucer. It's slow going though. I thought maybe if I tried writing it here my brain might be able to sort of....absorb some knowledge by osmosis,” she waved a hand vaguely about her head.

“Well, I'm pleased my little collection has served to inspire - ”

“It's not working.”

“Ah...well, I find that generally books work better when open, dear. I'm happy to point you to some commentaries and histories that would make helpful references, just so long as you finish your tea first. And promise you'll leave them at the front desk for me to refile when you're done. I know people think I'm a bit queer about that but...”

“Not the only thing people think you're queer about.”

The rustle of a newspaper being turned down made Maddy glance towards the corner of the room and into the smirking face of the lanky man she'd long assumed was Mr. Fell's boyfriend, although they hardly seemed to have anything in common. She didn't have much of a frame of reference for what to call a relationship that seemed to consist entirely of bickering, served with a generous side of sass and a dessert tray of petty insults. She supposed that “related” was a possibility, but the idea that the two men could be brothers seemed even less likely. She wasn't about to ask, since it wasn't any of her business. A far more interesting mystery was how he consistently failed to run into any furniture, given that he never took his sunglasses off, no matter how dim it was in the store.

Whatever he was to Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley (or Tony, as he'd once asked her to call him), was often lounging around the bookshop. Perhaps reading a newspaper, or sprawling across the arms of a chair, napping. When he wasn't doing his level best to annoy Mr. Fell into paying attention to him. She'd come to think of him as part of the charm.

“Did I say something funny, Crowley?”, Mr. Fell said peevishly.

Tony pretended to ignore him “You'll have to excuse him, his vocabulary hasn't advanced much past the 50's[2].”

She tried not to giggle, and felt stupid about it. It wasn't really funny. It was childish, but there was something infectious about Tony’s air of petty mischief. Her resolve faltered when Mr. Fell began to threaten him with the feather duster, which _was_ a bit funny.

“Oi! New jacket! New! Jacket! Don't you dare soil it you...”

Maddy snorted with laughter at how ridiculous they looked, one brandishing the sad clump of feathers as though it was a holy sword, the other using a newspaper as a makeshift shield. They stopped fussing abruptly and straightened themselves out, each looking for all the world like a cat that's run headlong into a screen door and gotten up to strut away with a general air of you-saw-nothing-ness.

“Anyway,” Tony said smoothly, “Chaucer eh? What a tosser. Made the 14th century a bit less of a waste though.”

“Crowley - ”

“You know I'm right.”

“A fine way to sum up a lifetime of contribution to poetry and literature, not to mention the first works of popular science in - ”

“Oh yes, great strides in the sophistication of the English language. Red hot poker buggery and clouds of farts. At least he knew what he was on about when it came to the priesthood.”

“Don't you start - ”

“Hold up thy tail, thou Satan!“ Tony quoted, flipping up the back end of his jacket irreverently, “Show forth thyn arse, and let the friar see, Where is the nest of friars in this place!”

“If you're going to be vulgar in front of the young lady I'm going to have to ask you to leave, _Anthony_.”

“What did I do? He wrote it! Then some dusty professor gave her the book and probably proceeded to make it dull as dishwater. There's the literary atrocity you should get your feathers in a ruffle over, angel. Isn't that right, Mads?"

She smiled, “This young lady doesn't need you protecting her tender ears, thanks all the same Mr. Fell. But maybe if you wouldn't mind talking to me about _The Canterbury Tales_ and showing me those books...”

The conversation went on into the night, Mr. Fell waxing rhapsodic about English vernacular and rhyme royal, and Mr. Crowley pointing out all the little hypocrisies and naughty bits of the text, paying extra special attention to all the ones she hadn't noticed yet. There were also a number of lurid details about Chaucer's personal life that Maddy assumed they were making up to amuse her. She smiled, and took notes.

* * *

1 She'd been a bit disappointed that he wasn’t named Conrad Coreander or something of the sort, but she supposed that even in Soho, you couldn't expect a real-life bookshop to be quite _that_ magical.Return to text

* * *

2 Maddy wasn't to know that when Crowley said “the 50's” he meant the _1850's_.Return to text

* * *


	2. The Circle

Crowley was quite wrong about Aziraphale's vocabulary of course. Books are more than just collections of words, pressed like so many leaves. But they are made of words, in part; any lover of books is therefore, of necessity, a lover of words, or at least a collector. The angel had accumulated every last one of the words that a man-shaped being with smooth hands and delicate mannerisms could expect to attract. He knew every meaning of ‘queer’ including several that were forgotten.

Admittedly, human sexuality had been a bit baffling at first. Gender had been an interesting novelty back in the time of Eden, and there were all those extra bits that seemed to think for themselves as well. The whole sweaty business made a certain amount of sense in keeping the species going of course, but then there were all those feelings humans had about it that seemed extraneous at best, and bled over onto their fellows at worst. Sometimes with quite a bit of literal blood. He'd been glad that his cover as an agent assigned to Earth didn't require him to be very specific about any of it because he wouldn't have known where to begin. There was more to it than just the genders and the bits, apparently.

 _Ineffable_ , he'd told himself, as he often did when things made him uncomfortable.

Still, after the first millennium or two, he felt like he had a handle on it[3]. Humanity had come to the consensus that the angel was male, and he'd been happy to oblige them, since it seemed just as good as any of the other possibilities. There were eras when they'd hinted that perhaps he was doing it wrong, but by the time he'd caught on, certain habits had baked themselves into his body. The fashions changed from century to century anyway, making it exasperating to keep up with their expectations. On the plus side, humans had a tendency to make up a wide variety of fascinating words about things that made them uncomfortable, rather than clinging unimaginatively to just one. Aziraphale had made a study of them, casually at first, but with increasing interest as time went on.

No, words weren't the angel's blind spot, it was the idioms he had trouble with. Even then, he'd kept up quite well for most of Creation, but with more and more humans, there seemed to be ever more creative ways to string words together. And they changed them all up every few decades or so. What was the point of trying to keep pace? And hadn't dear old William already invented the good ones, at least when it came to English?

Well, not all the good ones. Every once in awhile they'd come up with something that was just so apt it would stick in the angel's mind.

‘In the closet’ for instance. Aziraphale knew that feeling, the clipped wing constriction of it. The doubts and urges that shouldn't be aired out. Folded and neatly hung up in that breathless space. The feelings that begged to become words, locked tightly away. And the strange comfort of it, the walls that protected even as they confined. Hiding you from the family whose love you craved but whose judgment you feared. The shield wall around your secret heart that you couldn't bear to leave, even as it suffocated you. It was a lot of truth for three short words to bear, and he marveled at their elegance.

Of course, it would take a bit more than a closet to hide a parcel of doubts born before time began, little white lies to the Almighty, and a sixty century-odd friendly association with the Enemy. An expansive wardrobe would be required, possibly one large enough to contain a portal to a magical land filled with talking animals and painfully obvious Biblical metaphors. But the gist was the same.

Oh yes, Aziraphale knew what it was to be different. He knew queer. He’d known it long before that particular word for it. Since before Chaucer had invented the English language. Since before there had been any time for him to invent it in. Aziraphale had been queer, as the kids these days might say, since before it was cool[4].

There really wasn't a better word for an angel who chatted with a curious demon whenever their assignments brought them together. It was certainly better than other words that might come up in the circumstances, should he be caught. 'Traitor' for instance. But Aziraphale had hated the War. Thinking of it made his wings shake and his mind spin. He told himself that his nature was simply too polite to smite first and ask questions later, and that the demon was frequently annoying, but always seemed to stay just to the right side of smitable. It had to be part of the Plan. That was right, wasn't it? There was a Plan, and the demons were part of it in spite of themselves. Stick to the Plan, it will all be right in the end. No need to get excitable, no reason to take drastic action.

In time there were more and more humans, and more and more field agents, which meant his assignment had shrunk to Europe, and then Britain. And each time, it seemed as though Crowley was given roughly the same region. They'd started to run into each other so often it became impossible to avoid smiling at the one face that you knew would remain constant through the centuries.

By the time the Arrangement had come about, it had already existed in all but name.

After ages being sent here and there, his assignment to London had come as something of a relief. If he was going to be given pointless busywork by Head Office, then he'd felt that he should at least be spared the indignity of tromping about in the unavoidable English mud, not to mention that a desk to call his own and a place to put it would make filling out the endless reports slightly more bearable. There'd been more opportunity to discover art and literature, to really make a study of the endless variety of human customs. And oh! – hadn't the Children of Eve become ever so clever with food after all these years?

There'd been more of Crowley too, and that had been frightening, as closer proximity made the plausible deniability of the Arrangement harder to maintain. He'd almost called the whole thing off after a few close calls, but… He had to admit that it did make things more efficient. Kept the little boxes of divine achievement checked with alacrity. It certainly wasn't that all the little discoveries his increasingly hedonistic heart was making were just a bit more fun with a frie—colleague to experience them with. And by “fun” he meant “educational”. Good for maintaining his cover. Certainly. Probably.

He'd made other friends too, and as though out of habit, they tended to be the kind that an agent of Heaven probably shouldn't approve of. Will and the boys at the Globe had been an endless source of entertainment, of course. If the theater had a whiff of perdition about it, well one could make allowances for artists[5]. And if there was something of Hell in the base and rowdy elements of the plays, there was something of Heaven there too, in the pureness of the emotion they could evoke, and the passionate artistry of the words.

Mother Clap had brought him inevitably into her orbit, and introduced him to the wonders of coffee and her gaggle of gentle men, who were always unaccountably kind and solicitous. He'd preened at their attention. _Zirah, come back soon. Zirah, aren't you sweet. Auntie Zirah, how fine you look in those stockings, and who is your handsome friend with the dark glasses and the fantastic hair? Weren't you walking in St. James's just the other day?_

“Oh, he's not my friend. Distant family at best… kicked out of the house poor dear. His own fault though! He's a bit of… of a delinquent you might say. I just keep an eye on him on account of the affection I have for his dear old mother.”

They would try not to laugh, and Mother would guffaw, and they'd move on and talk of clothes and gossip, and Aziraphale would slip out when the ale started flowing and things got bawdy. They'd covered their laughing lips at that too, never knowing he'd seen it all and more in Rome and Babylon. He preferred books as his nightly activity, since most humans were asleep and therefore couldn't interrupt his reading.

He hadn't been able to do anything when they'd raided Mother's house. They'd hung three of her boys from the Tyburn Tree, and no miracle to save them. People clucked, and talked of the sins of Sodom, and Aziraphale's ancient heart had ached. How could he tell them he'd been there, that the heavenly fire had rained down on his behalf, because of the violence they'd offered him and nothing else? He hadn't felt sorry for the people of Sodom, even if Heaven's wrath had made him queasy, the stench too much like burning feathers in the Fall. He felt for Margaret Clap and her boys; they'd entertained an angel unawares, and surely they'd deserved better?

“They flatter the memory of old Jamsey boy, for that beautiful translation of half and quarter truths, angel, even though they know what he got up to,” Crowley said sourly, “Maybe if you burn enough witches, they think it balances out. Or maybe they think Her Upstairs don't mind so much if you're rich. They think a lot of things.”

“And none of them through. They're not unlike the Fallen that way.”

“Well at least we think!” he bit bitterly. “Or, we did for a bit. But now it's just Here's the Old Boss same as the Unspeakably Ancient Boss, and whether we do the work or not we get the blame.”

And that was the heart of it wasn't it? Upstairs or Downstairs, what did it matter? They were united in indifference. The humans were doing it to themselves, and Aziraphale had been unable to decide if that made it better or worse. If this was a Great Plan, he'd hate to see an Infernal one.

But that thought was too dangerous, and so he'd folded it up, tucked it away behind a false board in the wardrobe he didn't know he'd built in his mind. _Ineffable_ , he'd thought, like a mantra. If he just clung to that, it would all be all right in the end.

That was the first time Crowley had convinced him of the merits of getting quite ragingly drunk. Before he'd passed out, the demon had dug a copy of _Daemonologie_ from the angel's stacks of books and the mocking commentary he'd made for Aziraphale's benefit had almost made him smile. He'd dreamed a dream of black wings wrapped around him in a comforting embrace, and forgotten all about it by morning.

He'd moved to Oxford after that, to lecture for a position and in a hall that hadn't been there the day before he arrived; lived a monkish existence in those halls of learning, although it had been awkward explaining to the chancellor why he was so frequently away. He was insulated there, by the regularity and the isolation. It soothed his discomforts, and he’d felt he blended in more convincingly, a certain eccentricity being expected in scholars. Yet he kept returning to London. There were so many _interesting_ people there, And Crowley. Always Crowley.

It was Mademoiselle D'Eon who suggested he move to Soho and open a bookshop, and he had to admit that his office at Oxford was full to overflowing, and it would be nice to be closer to the publishers of London.

“This is the place for you, you softy,” she'd said, “here amongst the gentry, and you can help me with my book - it's troublesome having to pull you out of your cloister at the university. Now hand me my sword, would you? It could use a good oiling, there's a dear.”

It had taken him a few decades to get around to it, but in time A. Z. Fell and Co. had opened. Soon enough the gentry had moved away; in their place came theaters and shops, and eventually, cholera. Aziraphale had done what he could, and if more of those saved came from the people he was drawn to – the different, the outsiders, the restaurateurs – Head Office didn't seem to notice or care. And they’d started to settle there, the slightly squared pegs of society. While the angel had missed the class of people who could really appreciate his collection, at least the new arrivals were less likely to try and buy any of it, and the restaurants really were very nice.

He'd quarreled with Crowley, who disappeared for some time after. On the one hand, this had meant more free time, because he didn't have to work as hard to maintain the status-quo, and on the other, it meant finding things to fill all that time up with. So he'd acquired books, attended the theater, learned stage magic[6], and failed in any way to admit to himself that he missed the demon. A friend suggested he join the Hundred Guineas Club, and he'd been leery at first, remembering the scouring of Mother Clap's house, but that was the nice thing about the gentry, wasn't it? They knew how to be discreet. So he'd gone and told them his name was Margaret, and had a delightful time learning to dance and kiss and felt for a time like he was among kindred spirits. People with too many secrets, and a desperate desire to be known.

He'd met Oscar Wilde, of course, and Aziraphale had attempted desperately to avoid infatuation. But the young man dressed in silk and fur and ribbon like a lord of Hell, and had the clear eyes and aloof benevolence of an angel, and wrote poems and stories that burned across Aziraphale's soul like falling stars. How could he help it if some of those stars ended up in his eyes? And if Wilde sometimes reminded him of serpentine smiles and swagger, he'd put it down to the man's self-destructive impulses.

They'd never grown close, a dowdy middle aged bookseller was never going to be a favorite in the frivolous and fashionable company the man had kept, but kind-hearted Robbie Ross had become a regular at the shop, and brought his friend with him for a polite cup of tea and an exchange of pleasantries and signed first editions now and again, much to the angel's delight. In the time of the trials, he'd taken refuge there, and Aziraphale had consoled him as best he’d been able, until the day he'd been forced to flee abroad. Years later, Ross had come to the shop a final time with a manuscript and a request.

“Mr. Fell, I'd like you to read it, I think you'll find interest in it. It will be printed properly one day of course, but for now it must be kept close, to avoid further prosecutions.”

“And yet why give me the original, Mr. Ross, for surely it is too precious for you to part with the only copy?”

“Naturally, I will be wanting it back, but I shan't have time to correct and copy it myself for a long while yet, and Oscar's health will scarcely allow it. I would like for you to do it, to make a copy for myself, for I've seen how lovely your handwriting is, and how much skill you use in binding your books, and there's none whose discretion and love of the written word I trust more. I know it is no small thing to ask, but I can pay for your services.”

Aziraphale had read the manuscript, and while it was a mess of grandeur and brokenness, he did find interest in it. When Wilde wrote of his friend gently raising a hat to him as he'd been dragged off to his disgrace before the jeering crowd, the angel had seen clearly in his mind's eye young Robbie, dressed in his best, making before all of them that gesture of tiniest defiance and deepest love.

He'd sent the manuscript back to Ross in France, along with two beautifully bound copies, written out in a strangely ethereal copperplate script, and with them a letter saying that he would in noways accept any payment for them, having made and kept a copy for himself, and he hoped he might have their forgiveness for this trespass. It was given, and for some time Aziraphale had the most complete and accurate copy of _De Profundis_ in existence occupying a place of honor in his back room.

He’d found inspiration in Ross’ tiny defiance. More minute rebellions, easily denied even to himself, took root. It was finding a publisher for Bentham's writings on gender and sexuality, letting the denizens of the Shim-Sham club out the back during a police raid[7], it was diverting bombs over a slightly wider area than was strictly necessary to protect himself during the Blitz, glaring balefully at young men throwing rocks at the Chinese shopkeep's windows, and letting some pretty young boy on the run from the Krays sleep on the couch in the shop[8]. Little unmiraculous miracles, the kinds that sometimes humans made. And all around him, the neighborhood had grown shabby, and its angel with it. But there was a safety there, nothing too certain, but better than elsewhere, and a circle of care, faintly drawn.

People had come into that circle. The immigrants, bohemians, and artists. The playwrights and the ladies of somewhat negotiable affection. And of course, the inverts, the eonists, the mollies who'd become margeries, the tommies and sapphics, the mattachines and daughters of the labrys. Set up their own theatres, opened their own bookshops, found their own ways. They'd marched in the streets, fought indifference, raged against death. Stopped being queer, started being _queers._ Stopped being afraid, started looking out for one another.

The door of the hidden wardrobe had cracked open, just a bit. Enough for Crowley to talk him into subverting the Divine Plan on the flimsiest of excuses.

He'd been often away in the run-up to the Almostgeddon, and so had no means to prevent the nail bombing of the Admiral Duncan pub down the street in 1999. Three people had died, and no miracle to save them. Aziraphale had stood in the churchyard of St. Anne’s as the memorial was dedicated and thought: _No more._ He’d quite run out of patience, and any neo-Nazis unfortunate enough to enter his line of sight found themselves falling into unaccountably uncovered manholes, even on streets which did not, in the natural course of things, actually have any manholes. It wasn't proper angelic behavior, but he'd rationalized that they never broke too many bones, since he always made sure they landed in a nice deep pool of water. Well, something like water. Liquid, anyway.

Home Office hadn't gotten on his case for it. It had hardly mattered ﹘something snapped in him during the Last Days, when he'd made that fateful call home. There'd been all the business with the Antichrist and the Whore of Babylon, a flaming sword and held hands and last stands. And Ineffability had served him well for the very first time. That had been nice.

Adam had said no more messing about. But surely looking out for the neighborhood didn't count? It was hardly a miracle, loving your neighbor, right[9]?

The wardrobe had been smashed. There wasn't any going back.

* * *

3 He didn't. But neither did humanity so you could hardly blame him.Return to text

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4Did the kids these days say that? Drat. It was so dreadfully hard to keep up.Return to text

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5Besides, the whiff was mostly Crowley, when he'd had too much to drink.Return to text

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6For certain values of the word “learned” anyway. The angel was good at words, not so good at honest self-assessment.Return to text

* * *

7Crowley had returned by this time, and had distracted the authorities long enough for the patrons to scatter into the streets while Aziraphale held the door. He'd reported this as a successful operation thwarting the police in their lawfully appointed rounds, and Aziraphale had reported his part as protecting the innocent oppressed. Neither of them mentioned the bit where they'd crammed into the Bentley with some of the patrons and driven the short distance to the bookshop, where a grateful Garland Wilson had given an impromptu encore of his performance that night on a piano that hadn't been there before and subsequently never was again.Return to text

* * *

8Aziraphale never met the Kray brothers in person, though once Ronnie Kray had sent some of his toughs around to investigate the rumor that a bookseller in Old Compton Street was interfering with his procurement.  
  
_Once._ Return to text

* * *

9Wrong. It’s the deepest and most difficult miracle there is.Return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk meta with me on Discord and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wortlby2)


	3. The Magic

Aziraphale had been the subject of no small amount of Crowley's considerable powers of observation over the years, and it hadn't escaped the demon's notice when the angel started to intervene more often in little things that weren't actually orders from Heaven. The family sushi place where the knives never went dull. The homeless youth who became unseen to potentially hostile passers-by. And of course the occasional bigot, befouled via casual gesture and mysterious manhole as they walked by on the other side of the street.

Crowley had naturally approved of all of this, if only because he enjoyed seeing the angel bend the rules with frivolous miracles and un-angelic attachment to mere mortals, but he hadn't been able to escape the conclusion that it was all a bit… inefficient. In the aftermath of the Nopacalypse, the demon had found himself coming back to that thought again and again. He'd also thought about Their Side, and the fact that it was a very small Side indeed. A Side very much in need of something to even the scales and buy them time if either of the Other Sides decided to no longer tolerate their presence on the board. Insurance. That was the key.

He'd met other Principalities, very long ago, in the time when all the humans were wandering and all the celestial and infernal agents were too. He'd learned to avoid them. They tended to get pissy and smitey if you messed with whatever they'd been assigned to protect. That was what it came down to wasn't it? They were meant to protect. A place, or some people, usually both. Anger and smiting weren't Aziraphale's style - not unless pushed - but Crowley had thought of the flaming sword, given away and taken up again, and reasoned that the instincts were there, had been all along, looking for a more Aziraphaley way to express themselves. In Crowley's opinion, the angel had never leveraged his powers creatively enough. But perhaps that wasn't his fault. Heaven had taken him off the Eastern Gate when there'd been no more need for his services there, and never bothered to assign him a proper protectorate after that. They'd sent him out amongst the humans, moving him from place to place and keeping him extremely busy, based on the logic that he was several days more the expert than anyone else they had, but “all the humans” wasn't really specific enough to qualify as a protectorate and they'd actively discouraged him from getting attached.

Heaven was _dumb_. Crowley had been certain he could do better. So with the peculiar industriousness of the very lazy, he'd applied himself to the problem.

The angel had already gotten part way there. He'd been reaching out to the slightly odd denizens of Soho for centuries, albeit haphazardly. Crowley could see why, he had quite a bit of sympathy for the odd outs himself. But the angel had been distracted by the end of the world run around hadn't he? Then they'd started the rest of their lives, and being free to do whatever he wished, the angel had mostly wished to share gourmet meals and the odd concert with Crowley and collect more books. If Aziraphale was ever going to properly commit to adopting the area he'd have to interact more with his charges. The bookshop was the ticket, the demon decided. The angel was already protective of its contents and it was his home besides. Tricky, true, to subsume the instincts towards the space and the people around it without triggering the angel's protectiveness towards the books, but if there was ever a demon to do it, well...

“You know angel, you ought to get more people in here. Remember the old days? You used to have salons, entertain, maybe sell a book or two.”

“That was a long time ago Crowley, there was a better class of people around then, people who appreciated fine books. Now there's all these,” the angel waved a hand dismissively “'inline chat rooms’ and what have you. Words have become cheap. Have you seen what passes for a good book these days? I'm not about to start carrying any of that Dan Brown nonsense. I hardly want to get into the habit of selling my books in any case.”

“You realize it's not a book _shop_ if no one can do any _shopping_ right? That's not a thing...well, it is a thing, and that thing is _a bad hoarding habit._ ”

Aziraphale _tsked_ unhappily.

“You know I'm right. What was the point of all that running around we did so that we could stay here and enjoy a human lifestyle if we don't actually spend time around humans? We're _free_ , angel, and we don't have much to do anymore – ”

“ _You_ don't.”

“Well you won't if you insist on operating a cover for a job you've been terminated from with _extreme_ prejudice instead of an actual business. C'mon, let me help, I have some ideas.”

Aziraphale had just huffed and buried himself in his latest book, but the demon wasn’t deterred. A temptation was no fun at all if the temptee didn’t put up a little resistance.

“Let me try some things. You can always put it back if you don’t like it,” Crowley tried the next day, lounging with practiced indolence while Aziraphale tended to a stack of biographies.

“I’ve already said _no_.”

“You’ll get bored.”

“Nonsense my dear,” the angel said with an annoyingly indulgent smile,”I’ve got you here haven’t I?”

The back and forth had gone on for a few days, but Crowely had hit paydirt when he'd quite reasonably pointed out that having some of that “Dan Brown nonsense” around might distract the customers from buying the books Aziraphale _actually_ cared about. Besides, he could always put things back the way they'd been if he didn't like it, right? _Surely now is the time to be trying new things, angel?_

The first thing to go was the smell. Aziraphale had been forced to admit that this was an improvement. Then most of the books in the main room had been relocated to the various side rooms[10]' and the comfier pieces of antique furniture were brought in to take up their place. Small and tidy racks of trade paperbacks and periodicals appeared too, and Crowley had pushed it just enough to meet resistance.

“This isn't a… a _newsstand_ Crowley!”, the angel whined, and leave it to Aziraphale to say 'newsstand' like it was a dirty word.

Crowley had eventually removed the copies of _The Sun_ and _Heat_ and replaced them with _The New Yorker_ and _The Economist_ , which was what he'd wanted in the first place.

The next step had been easier, and more pleasant for all involved. They'd gone to Edinburgh for the festival. Together. That had been a first. Plays, music, and street food both wonderful and terrible. There were sights, sounds, and smells to take in with no one looking over their shoulders. They'd both enjoyed themselves immensely. Crowley hadn't even teased Aziraphale when the angel had dragged him towards every street magician and laughed like a child at their ludicrous illusions and obvious sleight of hand[11]'.

Two weeks and one very happy and relaxed angel later, Crowley resumed lounging around a few days a week at the shop. He'd miracled the place cleaner by degrees and waited impatiently for the locals to notice. With the angel's baleful glare temporarily tamed by his lingering festival mood, they began to come in off the street. Finding a homey atmosphere and the occasional page-turner or magazine they wished to read or buy, they'd stayed. At least for a bit. They chatted amiably with Crowley, and sometimes Aziraphale would look up from whatever he was reading long enough to join in, the one unwavering constant of the residents of Soho over the centuries being that they were _interesting_. The musty, dusty pages of the books in the side rooms remained unexplored by all but the most determined bibliophiles, and the angel's considerable talents at refusing to name prices, make change, or give customers anything but he most disdainful of looks no matter what they brought to the counter were still very successful in persuading them that they merely wanted to praise and discuss his collection, rather than abscond with any of it.

[ ](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/632818358772957184/652972905369698314/image0.png)

The trickiest phase had begun on a day when Aziraphale had gone to Cambridge to purchase some books from a private collection. The urn had appeared, along with some cups and saucers that Crowley had begrudgingly kept tasteful[12]. Crowley had ensured (by means best not looked into by the rational mind) that it was always full of tea brewed from leaves stolen from an East India Company shipment from 1753. It had been a very fine year, and if he was going to pull this off, he was going to need some very good tea indeed, laws of linear time be blessed[13]. It was, everyone had agreed, very fine tea indeed and it served its intended purpose of causing people to linger around the shop and talk to each other.

The only problem had been the enormous row it had caused.

“ _Get out!_ ”

“Angel – ”

“Not another word! I won't have it! Do you have _any idea_ what I'd do to you if anyone had spilled tea on my books?”

Crowley had some ideas. Holy water would be less painful, because at least in that case he would cease to exist. “Alright, I'm sorry, I should have asked first. But nothing happened!”

The door slammed in his face had been the angel's eloquent answer.

He'd stomped home, sulked a bit, and spent a few hours making the necessary phone calls to ensure that Pluto was eventually stripped of its designation as a planet, just out of spite. It had hurt to be in the rough with the angel, but it was hardly the first time. Aziraphale always came around.

Two days later, Crowley had finally caved, and nervously rang the bookshop. The suggestion of lunch at the Ritz had been accepted, albeit with all the warmth of a polar bear's arse. It had taken no more than an hour for being together to feel natural again, and the next day they were reading comfortably beside each other after-hours at the shop in companionable silence. It might have ended there, but Crowley was a very stubborn demon. He decided to take drastic measures.

One would think that for hands that had crafted stars a simple crème brûlée would be child's play, but the only blasted one to agree would never have had the misfortune of trying it in the ancient kitchen of the flat above the shop, which hadn't gotten new appliances since the 1960's and had to be excavated from a pile of books. Crowley had miracled over a few tools from his own kitchen and some fresh vanilla beans from Madagascar, and made sure that the ancient oven knew that it _would_ be keeping an even temperature throughout if it knew what was good for it. That was the extent of cheating to be permitted, however; Aziraphale always knew when food had been conjured from raw fundament, and insisted it wasn't as good.

Crowley had always liked cooking. He enjoyed working with his hands, when he could be motivated into it, and the alchemy of it was fascinating. It was also an extremely helpful tool for tempting. He'd gotten out of the habit around the time humans had invented compound interest, which was quite a bit more useful when you had enough time for it to accumulate into the kind of fortune that would make a pharaoh green with envy, and once you'd done that, it was just easier to pay humans to do the work for you. Crowley had resumed the hobby now and again, however, and found he always seemed to get back into the rhythm of it quickly. He hadn't forgotten the fringe benefits either, and was not in the least surprised when Aziraphale showed up, as though summoned by the smells of custard and vanilla.

The angel had watched him carefully, and with increasing fondness. Funny that. For all that he loved food, Aziraphale had never really taken to cooking. But he liked watching people cook, especially if the resulting food was going to be for him. Crowley had ignored him, and tried to be extra graceful. Cooking wasn't really _cool_ these days, but if he was going to have an audience then by Satan he was going to do it with style. It had ended up being touch and go with the caramel, but he'd held the little wisp of fire he'd summoned between his fingers steady, and it left a delightful little spice of sin baked into the sugar.

“Don't think I can't see what you're doing, you old serpent.” the angel said between bites, and without a trace of animus. “I'm not budging on the tea, no matter how much you butter me up, and I don't understand why it's so important to you. Open up a coffee shop if you need to.”

“Sounds like work,” Crowley said, pushing the unfinished half of his portion towards his friend, “Anyway, I've been thinking.”

“Doesn't sound like proper demonic activity.”

“Shut up. You've enjoyed it right? Having a bit more going on around the place?”

“It's hasn't been _unpleasant_ , I'll grant you that, but I still don't see why it's so important to you.”

“You remember what it felt like to be in Tadfield right? A place that was loved, you said. What if people really loved this place, eh? Got to be good for an angel, being in a place that's loved.” He’d been quite pleased by this excuse.

“And what's in it for you?”

Crowley reminded himself that Aziraphale had many fine qualities, even if he couldn't think of any of them right at this moment. “I _like_ people. You're not half bad yourself, most of the time.”

“Hmph.”

Crowley drummed his long fingers on the table for a few moments and focused his eyes somewhere just past the angel's head. “It's never occurred to you...that I might...enjoy seeing you happy?” His own mouth surprised him, he was sure he hadn't meant to say that.

The angel looked at him with piercing affection at that. “Hot tea near my books doesn't make me happy.”

“No but people do. Certain types of people. When they're kind.” Crowley rose with a sinuous stretch, and poured them each a generous finger of scotch from the bottle on the bar. “Anyway, you drink tea in here. And cocoa. And between the two of us we've probably spilled a vineyard's worth of wine.”

“On the floorboards, and you've always had the good sense to respect my books.” The angel moved their dishes to the sink and returned to sit on the couch. “Anyway, you act like a good cup of tea can make miracles.”

Crowley handed the angel his drink and sat down next to him, stretching an arm over his shoulders as he did so, “Maybe not on its own, but I think you might be surprised how much it can grease the wheels.” He took a sip of his scotch thoughtfully, “I remember when you cloistered yourself away at Oxford. You needed it at the time I suppose but...”

“I wasn't unhappy. I wasn't exactly happy either. I suppose I was comfortable.”

“Comfortably numb. Bored too, after the novelty wore off.” Crowley pushed his glasses up onto his head and turned towards the angel. “You really want to do that again? Look, angel, you were ready to face down my old boss for these people. Talked me into it too, and talking people into stupid stuff is more my line.” Aziraphale turned to him, eyes all warmth. “After that you're really going to tell me you're afraid of some stains on your books?”

“Well,” the angel said softly, “when you put it that way...”

The pot of temporally displaced tea had returned, fussy little teacups and all, and up had gone the signs warning customers to keep their grubby liquid tannins within the main room. Aziraphale's unique talents of bookshop management made sure the warnings were obeyed. The eccentric opening hours had stayed, however. The angel needed a certain amount of time to himself. This had only served to give the shop the air of an exclusive club, and those who found their way inside knew that they were lucky to be there.

Crowley could tell he was getting somewhere when the shop began to have regulars. Mrs. Babbage from down the street, who was there for the tea and the company and nothing else. Mr. Khan, who paid Aziraphale in gorgeous Islamic calligraphy[14]'. Dr. Mckenna, who always failed to wheedle the books they wanted out of the angel, but never failed to find an interesting conversation on the merits of medieval German literature and poetry. Uncle Terry, who ganged up on the angel with Crowley's help when it came to debates about the nature of free will[15]' and was constantly forgetting his hat. People who'd liked the shop and the company enough to stay for hours.

Crowley knew he'd _won_ the day one of the neighborhood kids had asked Aziraphale for the time, just to see the angel pull out his fancy pocket watch. Not to mock him, but just because they found it an endearing eccentricity. The neighborhood had decided they _liked_ the angel, that he was one of them. The affection directed at Aziraphale and at the shop had made him preen. In the warmth of fellowship, and the absence of Heavenly oversight, the angel's edges melted away, and his personality mellowed into something deep and rich and golden. In time, the good-will seemed to reflect back out from him, gentle as moonglow.

Crowley had thought about how funny it was that you could know someone for so long...think you'd seen every last facet, ferreted out every secret, and still see something new. For the first time, he'd seen his angel's face soft and open, sweet with true contentment. He'd never seen that, not really. There'd always been the tension, the anxiety, even in happier moments. Now the angel was practically glowing on a regular basis, and the love that poured magnified from him was spilling over, out of the shop, and into the street.

It had been, to be frank, a little nauseating.

Or so Crowley had told himself. The truth was that a not insignificant amount of the affection flowing from the angel was directed at _him_ , and he'd basked in that warmth as he'd basked on the rocks of Eden in the morning of the world. It was glorious. It was embarrassing. He loved it, and was annoyed that he loved it, and then annoyed at his own annoyance. An angel's love is strong protection, and wasn't that the point?

Just how strong, though? And how to measure the effects? He was sure there were more gender-neutral bathrooms showing up in the local businesses[16]', but that could just be Soho. When they went out to eat, he’d noticed people tipping more generously than usual, and considered this a promising sign. There was the furor between the Westminster City Council and the Admiral Duncan over their garish flag, which the community had won with stubborn pride and 'I Love Soho' stickers. That would probably have happened anyway, but Crowley liked to think the angelic aura settling over the place had helped. The nasty letter Aziraphale had sent the Council probably hadn't hurt either.

When he’d noticed his fellow Londoners looking each other in the eyes and saying ‘hello’ more readily he’d wondered if perhaps he’d gone too far.

One day, Crowley had tempted a few drunk and unruly football ‘ _enthusiasts_ ’ into crossing Charing Cross Road and heading into Soho to have a good hoot and holler at the queers and generally make a nuisance of themselves. They hadn’t even gotten to Greek Street before their headaches made them reconsider. He'd tried it from Regent Street too, walking towards the area with some “England for the English” signs he’d nicked from protesters outside Parliament, and found that the message changed to “Co-exist” if he got too close. _Excellent_. It wouldn't hold off anything supernatural, not for long, but it was better than nothing, and if it meant Aziraphale used fewer direct miracles on a daily basis maybe Heaven would be inclined to let them stay forgotten for longer[17].

Over the years the feedback loop of the community caring for the angel and the angel loving them back had gradually increased the power of the protective circle, until Crowley was reasonably sure that anything that meant harm to the bookshop and anyone inside it would have a hard time finding the door, much less crossing the threshold. He'd been walking through the upstairs galleries one evening, idly pondering a few creative and inconspicuous ways he might test that theory, when he'd seen Aziraphale leaning on the balcony, watching the scene below.

“It's just as you said, my dear,” he said dreamily, “they really cherish this place now.”

Crowley took up a spot next to him and looked down at the people below, mostly regulars, chatting quietly, a few here and there curled up with a book on one of the chairs or couches. They all seemed content. There was even a budding couple, excitedly sharing their enthusiasm over some of the books they'd found, he'd learned to recognize the signs.

“It's like my own little garden,” the angel sighed, ”I don't think I've ever thanked you for building it for me.”

“You built it angel, I just came along and made sure to mist the leaves. Anyway, I like gardens.”

“And seeing me happy?”

“Don't get soppy on me, angel,” he said, but what was the point of denying it any longer? It was true after all. He'd wanted the protection, that little bit of insurance, to be sure, but that had never been the most important thing, not _really._

The angel laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “Why shouldn't I? A garden of my own, complete with serpent. Maybe we can get it right, this time around. If we work together?”

Crowley conjured up an apple, and waved it under his nose with an impish smile.

“You are _incorrigible_.” he said. But he took the apple and bit into it. A few seconds later, his eyes widened. “You didn't miracle this! It tastes too real, you stole it!”

“It's just like you said, I cannot be corriged.” the demon laughed, and took the apple back from the angel's unresisting hand for a bite of his own, “Got no truck with corrigement, me.” he said around the mouthful.

“You're going to Mrs. Babbage's tomorrow to make sure that is paid for Crowley.”

“Not a chance. A demon can get in a lot of trouble, doing the right thing. I expect you're going to do it, you did say you wanted to thank me.”

“Fine, but at least stop talking with your mouth full.”

They'd shared the apple, talked and needled each other, and watched humanity from the walls until it was time to close the garden gates. Crowley had to admit it was nice, knowing they'd be able to open them back up the next day.

* * *

10 Some of those rooms had been quite surprised to find themselves occupying a bit more of spacetime than they were accustomed to.Return to text

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11 The demon _had _been impressed by one eccentrically dressed young woman whose act seemed to be saying the world was in danger and doing increasingly wacky things. He'd been sorry Aziraphale was spending his day at the book festival at the time, the way she'd made the antique police box disappear had been particularly good.Return to text__

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12 By the standards of a prissy 19th century grandma. That is to say, Aziraphale standards.Return to text

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13 Many years later, Aziraphale would find out where the tea had come from, and object, until Crowley pointed out that stealing from the East India Company was practically a public service, even if the public in question had died centuries before.Return to text

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14 Words made sacred art, how could he resist? Return to text

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15 'It's a bugger, is what it is'Return to text

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16 Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley had taken to gender early and enthusiastically, and had decided a few decades into Creation that he was going to make a point of trying all of them out at least once. He'd gotten through 20 so far, and he considered it a major bonus of the averted Apocalypse that he'd have time to try the other 22 options.Return to text

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17 While the demon was pleased, nay, _smug_ about this little scheme's success, he'd still felt he had a reputation to maintain, so to prove to himself he wasn't getting soft, he'd influenced the creation of Youtube comments. He would come to regret this very much.Return to text

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk meta with me on Discord and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wortlby2)


	4. The Guardians

It was the kind of experience you could only have in a city as vibrant as London, and a place as lively as Soho.

Questions turned into debate which turned into more questions, which eventually turned into Mr. Fell excitedly running upstairs to find the books he wanted to reference. Far too caught up to wait until he returned downstairs, he opened a volume and started declaiming from the balcony until Tony groused at him to come down. A woman and her partner wandered out from the stacks, interested by their conversation, and started an in depth discussion with Mr. Fell on the influence of _The Decameron_ on the Tales that threatened to go down a rabbit hole into Dante before Tony brought it back with his ridiculous impressions of some of the taletellers. Everyone agreed his Madam Eglantine was particularly good.

In time the conversation moved on, and Maddy forgot her notes. A few of the other regulars wandered in, the chatting and joking making the outside world and the passage of time seem irrelevant[18]. Eventually Mr. Fell gently but firmly made it clear that closing time had come, and escorted them to the door. He shouldn't have bothered since, as always, they all congregated on the stairs for cigarettes and lingering pleasantries before drifting off one by one, until only Maddy was left.

“Thanks for the lovely evening Mr. Fell. Sorry I keep hanging out here and never buying anything.”

“Perish the thought my dear! And you've been around enough that you may call me Aleister if you like.”

“You know, I don't think I like?” she laughed, “Sorry, you just look like a 'Mister' to me. I hope that's okay.”

“Perfectly all right.”

“How long do I have to be a regular before I learn the dark secrets of what the 'Z' stands for?”

Crowley leaned against one of the pillars in the doorway and took another drag on his cigarette, “At least twice as long as it takes to learn what my 'J' is for.” he said.

“So...never?”

“I didn't say that, just that you had to earn it. Good luck on your essay.”

“I have some ideas about where to start now, thanks! Goodnight.” she started to walk away, then turned around, “Oh! I'll text you the IP for my brother's Minecraft server when I get home Tony!” She waved a final time before turning to cross the street.

Crowley and Aziraphale waved back, and as she moved out of sight, the angel shook his head, “You know, I understood all the words she just said to you, but I haven't the foggiest idea what she was talking about.”

“Don't worry about it.” The demon shrugged and flicked the remains of his cigarette towards the ground. It met a suspiciously sudden and wing-themed ashtray before it could arrive.

“You'll be picking that up.”

“Could've just vanished it.” Crowley grumbled.

“If I did that you wouldn't learn anything.” the angel said, sanctimoniously.

“Don't see the point in trying to learn things at my age.” Crowley bent down to pick up the ashtray, and it disappeared with a flick of his wrist. ”Well, shall we have a late dinner? The Golden Dragon is still open I think.”

“Ooh, and Mrs. Huang will probably give us some of her scrumptious pickled eggs if we're lucky.”

“The way that old woman fusses over you, I think it's more of a given. How you got every chef and shopkeep around here to be a willing enabler of your gluttony – “.

The angel sniffed indignantly. “Enjoying the wonders of Creation is not gluttony.”

“It is the way you do it. C'mon, angel. Get your coat, lock up, and let's get going.”

As they made their way down the street Aziraphale looked thoughtful, “Wasn't young Madeline the one with the rather aggressive suitor? Whatever happened to him?”

Crowley, who knew very well the young man had stopped coming near the bookshop after the first few inexplicable nosebleeds, said, “Dunno. Anyway, she said she’d text when she got home so there’s no need to fret.”

“Oh, I do hope so. Ah, here we are. After you.” They’d reached the restaurant, and Aziraphale held the door as Crowley stepped inside. Mrs. Huang smiled from behind the counter, waving them towards their usual booth, and later she did indeed bring them a jar of wonderful homemade pickles with their check. They did the song of offering to pay for them, she did the dance of refusing, and they left an overly generous tip before they went on their way. It was all very silly, and very human.

The circle of care grew just a glimmer brighter.

* * *

If you were to survey the residents of London on their opinions of whether demons and angels walked among them, you’d quickly find there are two types of people in this regard. The first would opine that of course the minions of Darkness and messengers of God are among us. Why, there must be thousands in London alone! Evil never sleeps, and Virtue is always vigilant. Besides, His eye is on the sparrow, and there sure are a lot of the little buggers, that must take a lot of eyes, right? Stands to reason.

The second type would dismiss this as the sentimental flights of fancy of the weak minded. Surely humanity has outgrown such silly superstitions? We don’t need that sort of thing anymore, we invented science! Belief in supernatural babysitters and boogeymen is just a relic of outmoded belief systems, a way for the human mind to comfort itself.

If you’d said to either that there were indeed angels and demons in London, but only one of each, and that it would be difficult for the casual observer to tell one from the other, or even to distinguish them from garden-variety humans, both types would be quick to assume you were quite mad, you poor thing. You could say that perhaps they lived more or less together in what could more or less be called harmony and were more or less decent citizens.

You might speculate that they’d spread their wings over a neighborhood surrounding an ever so slightly queer[19] antiquarian bookshop. And perhaps the angel was sometimes a bit insensitive, and the demon surprisingly thoughtful. Perhaps they bickered like an old married couple while sharing a booth at their favorite Chinese place and enjoyed a regular champagne lunch date at the Ritz. Maybe they occasionally helped young ladies with their homework, and on other occasions played nasty tricks on venture capitalists. And maybe there were days when the angel needed to stay in and work on his translations and the demon needed to go out clubbing. But they’ll always meet again for a stroll in St. James’s park. You might see them there one day, feeding the ducks.

Say any of this and at best, you’d be congratulated on your vivid imagination, and the two types of people would leave you well alone in favor of arguing with each other. Let them. Don’t say a thing. Every city has its secrets, and in London’s Soho, there’s not one better. Even if it isn’t true, wouldn’t it be nice if it was? The guardians at the western gate of Old Compton Street don’t mind whether people believe in them either way. Just make sure not to say anything disparaging about snakes, and keep your tea in the main room.

* * *

18 Indeed, if any of the humans present had thought to perform the experiment of putting a watch inside the shop, and an identical one outside, they would have found a small but noticeable discrepancy between the two.Return to text

* * *

19In every possible sense of that word. Return to text

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! That's the story. I hope you enjoyed! If you have any suggestions or criticisms feel free to share. The next "chapter" will be some author's notes, historical annotations, and a limited bibliography. 
> 
> Talk meta with me on Discord and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wortlby2)


	5. Author's Notes

This story is based on a very old idea I drafted up once and lost a long time ago, rekindled by the release of the TV show. The basic idea was that in Christian angel lore, Principalities are the guardians of nations or groups of people, so why not Aziraphale becoming the guardian angel of queers? Or just London's queers? Or just London's most famous queer neighborhood? Or just his neighborhood and the weirdos therein? Whether he realized it or not? A sort of shifting of his protectorate once he settled down in one place for awhile, since the Eastern Gate of Eden is long gone.

Queer history was always going to be an important part of it, but not to the level that appears in the fic you just read. But 2019 got me in a reflective mood, what with being the 50th anniversary of Stonewall and all, and I’d spent quite a bit of time listening to queer podcasts and reading queer history before entering the Big Bang so there was a lot sloshing around my head, although I knew way less about UK queer history than US queer history. I learned a lot just trying to write historical cameos into Chapter 2. I learned that 2019 was 20 years since the bombing of the Admiral Duncan pub, 40 years since the first flying of the 6-stripe Pride Flag we still use today, and of course 30 years since Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett yelled at each other over the phone a bunch and _Good Omens_ was written.

The idea of Crowley facilitating this is a new one, I kind of thought about how the whole circle of protection would come about as I was rewriting the thing. My original concept was that Aziraphale did the whole thing himself, semi-consciously. I slapped my forehead when I realized that without Hell's oversight, Crowley might be inspired to do a sort of good based version of his whole M-25 scheme, if properly motivated. The framing device is also new. Why I added the framing device...I don't know. I'm not sure it was a good idea, but we live and learn.

I’m blending some aspects of the book and tv series. The Apocalapse takes place around 2000-2001, and the scanty description of the confrontation at the airbase is based on the one in the book, which is similar to the tv series in broad strokes, but substantially different in dialogue and detail. I was originally shooting for the book characterizations, because they’re more familiar to me, but I think I ended up with something of a blend. If you’re wondering why Aziraphale seems less cuddly than the Michael Sheen version, that’s why. But I’ve leaned pretty hard into the tv series idea that Crowley has power over spacetime. WhiIe I was picturing the headcanon of their appearances I’ve had for the past 25 years when I wrote this, you can see that my artist based the illustrations on the tv series. What you imagine in the privacy of your own head is up to you, obviously. ;)

I’ve elected to replace my mental image of Aziraphale’s bookshop with the one from the show, because _damn_ , that is a bookshop I would want to hang out in. I’ve located the shop on or near the intersection of Old Compton Street and Wardour Street (in the book, the shop is on or near an intersection with Wardour Street, but no more detail is given). If you assume the shop is here it would make it on western end of Old Compton Street, which is the traditional center of Soho's gayborhood. This end of Old Compton street is also next to St. Anne’s Churchyard, which I really feel I should have worked into the fic more but ran out of ideas. The area doesn’t really look anything like what is depicted in the show, and I think the orientation of the compass rose in the shop actually makes it impossible for the shop to be on any of the corners there, but work with me here. 

I note that this part of Soho is close to Chinatown and has a number of sushi restaurants in it. Soho is also famous as a center for sex work and the like, which is shown in the 1960's sequence in the show. I like to think Az would look out for anyone on the margins of society, since he is not used to fitting in himself, even if he might be a bit stuck up about it.

Magaret Clap, aka Mother Clap, ran a molly house in the 1720s. It doesn't seem she did it so much to make money, but because she enjoyed the company of effeminate men, and genuinely cared for them. They were more working class people than those of the exclusive club Aziraphale joins later. Both clubs would have had the tradition of patrons using female pseudonyms. Imagine how lucky I felt when I found out that “Zirah” is a real female name, and Hebrew to boot. You’re welcome future molly house fic writers. At around this same era, the southern end of St. James's Park was a well known area for cruising. I haven’t been able to figure out if this is still true. 

Criminal Records did a good overview of Mother Clap’s trial here: [ https://demetriaspinrad.com/episode-10-margaret-clap/ ](https://demetriaspinrad.com/episode-10-margaret-clap/)

If you prefer to read about it, this is a great source:  
[ http://rictornorton.co.uk/eighteen/mother.htm  
  
](http://rictornorton.co.uk/eighteen/mother.htm)King James VI and I, of Bible fame, was just blatantly, fantastically not straight. We'd probably call him bisexual today, or possibly biromantic, although there isn't a one to one overlap of our modern conceptions of queer identities to the time. He was prone to showing way more favoritism than was healthy towards his male lovers, and was also obsessed with witches. He started the wave of witch burnings that would eventually lead to Agnes Nutter's explosion.

The guys who run the Bad Gays podcast have a bad habit of casual bi erasure, which is unfortunate since they are otherwise excellent. In any case, have their episode about King James: [ https://badgayspod.podbean.com/e/episode-4-james-vi-and-i/ ](https://badgayspod.podbean.com/e/episode-4-james-vi-and-i/)

I'm not going to tell you anything about Chevaliere D'Eon, because nothing I say could do them justice. They're one of the most fascinating people I've ever heard of, and you should Google them. When I realized they'd been living as a woman in Soho in the late 1700's I had to shoehorn them in. One day I will write that fic about their adventures with Crowley.

Queer As Fact _just_ did a podcast about them as I was finishing this fic: [ https://queerasfact.podbean.com/ ](https://queerasfact.podbean.com/)

[ https://queerasfact.podbean.com/e/the-chevaliere-deon-part-1/ ](https://queerasfact.podbean.com/e/the-chevaliere-deon-part-1/)

There were a number of cholera epidemics in London in the 1800’s. The most famous is the Broad Street cholera epidemic, famous for a certain Dr. John Snow (who _did_ know something!) tracking the source of the epidemic back to a pump on Broad Street where people where washing all kinds of things, including poopy diapers. This was all pretty close to where I’ve located the shop. Kind of feel like Aziraphale dropped the ball on this one, though Dr. Snow's work would lead to an emphasis on improved sanitation in public utilities that would drastically reduce the incidence of cholera in the future. 

Robbie Ross was Oscar Wilde's closet key, and truest friend. Funny story: he was played by Michael Sheen in a mid nineties biopic called _Wilde_. So you have the option of imagining the conversation between Ross and Aziraphale as taking place between a young and older Michael Sheen, although for the sake of your poor brain I don't recommend it. I do recommend the movie if you've ever felt like your life needed Michael Sheen making out with Stephen Fry though. 

I took heavy historical liberty here. Ross himself is the one who edited and prepared _De Profundis_ for publication, and he used a typewriter as far as I know. He also didn’t go to England for Wilde’s release, but met him in France, which is where he received the original copy, so in reality he couldn’t have just popped by Az’s shop to give the angel the original and just pop back to France but shhh! The original edit involved a lot of redaction of names and details because Ross was afraid of being sued for libel over the contents, so a full version wasn’t published until 1962. I imagine Az went and collected the other “angelic edit” copies he made for Wilde and Ross after Ross died and bequeathed the original letter to the British Museum under the condition that they forbid anyone from seeing it for 50 years, just to make sure that Robbie’s wishes were respected and so future Wilde scholars would have to work to decipher the original text. Pretty much everyone involved was trying to stick it to Bosie by keeping him from ever seeing the original as well, even though it was technically a letter addressed to him. :)

Jeremy Bentham was a founder of both Utilitarian philosophy, and University College London. I like to think he and Aziraphale were sort of mild frenemies. Some of his writings on sexuality and gender were unearthed and printed in 1931. They were absurdly progressive for his time. I’m not sure if the enterprising researchers going through Bentham’s papers had help from a cocoa drinking, slightly frumpy, but extremely helpful librarian they can’t quite remember very clearly but...who am I kidding that’s exactly what I’m saying. 

Bentham’s essay _Offenses Against Oneself,_ which makes a number of logical and ethical arguments against anti-sodomy laws _,_ was written in 1785, but was never published until _1978_ . This was well after partial decriminalization in England in 1967. The United States wouldn’t catch up to Bentham until _Lawrence v. Texas_ in 2003. 

As far as I know, Bentham was not any kind of queer. Just a guy who followed his philosophy to its logical endpoint. 

The Shim-Sham club was a real gay club that operated in Wardour Street in the 1930s, known for welcoming people of color and Jewish folks, which was not super common at the time. It’s address at 37 Wardour would put it just down the street from where I’ve located AZ Fell and Co. 

Garland Wilson was a gay black jazz pianist from the United States who did some extensive touring in Europe, and was known to have played at the Shim-Sham Club, including on its opening night. You can find recordings of some of his music on Youtube. 

The Krays are a pair of twin brothers who were very nasty gangsters active in London during the 60's and 70's. Ronnie Kray identified as both homosexual and bisexual depending on who was asking, and had relationships with both women and men. And by "relationships" I mean liasons of dubious consent, occasionally with people on the uh...younger side. He once famously said "I'm a homosexual, but I'm not a poof." Aziraphale would NOT be his kind of queer. Actually, no one would be, because Ronnie Kray is a good example of how merely having a non straight sexual orientation is not the same thing as having a queer identity. 

Interestingly enough, he went to a party in Mayfair around Christmas of 1965 where he was involved in a vicious fight with a rival gangster who called him a slur. This had some bad repercussions for him down the line and was also around the time he started exhibiting signs of paranoid schizophrenia. Now, I'm not saying maybe during that fight he spilled a drink on Mayfair's notorious Anthony J. Crowley, and subsequently saw something awful in an alleyway on the way home that broke his brain but you never know, right?

The bombing in 1999 that is mentioned is the nail bombing of the Admiral Duncan Pub, actually the third bombing in a spree of three by a Neo-nazi, and the only one to result in fatalities. Following the attack, the pub began to fly the Pride flag, and has done so ever since. In 2005, the Westminster City Council decided to ask the Admiral Duncan and some other Old Compton Street businesses to apply for permits to fly the Pride flag. This went...poorly ...for them. I can't imagine Aziraphale flying the Pride flag himself, a bit gaudy for his style, and relatively recent for his out of date tastes (the original Pride flag was first flown in 1978, the modern version appeared in 1979. Az is still stuck on green carnations probably) but he's not dumb, and he knows how important it is to the people around him. I'm sure his letter to the Westerminster City Council was _scathing_. 

I had to take a few liberties with terminology in the paragraph where I use a lot of historical terms for different types of not straight people. I was all excited to throw in the word “mattachine”, but I found out that the Mattachine Society was pretty much exclusively an American thing. Likewise, the Daughters of Bilitis, an early gay rights organization that existed all the way into 1995. Both groups formed in California in the 50’s (19, not 18) and the Mattachines in particular came to be regarded as too conservative after the Stonewall Uprising, due to their flavor of respectability politics. I could say a lot about why I like the word “mattachine” anyway, and how it relates to the themes of Ch 2 and loop around to the Lavender Scare and the queer spy tropes it engendered and from there to the Cold War tropes from the original book, but these notes are already _so long_. 

In any case, the word stays, despite no association with the jolly old queers of London. The Daughters of Bilitis have become the “daughters of the labrys” as a made up 1950’s term for lesbians. If you’re an older queer like me, you might remember the labrys (a double headed axe from Crete, associated by some with depictions of mother goddesses) as a popular symbol of lesbian solidarity. 

The only other thing I’ll say I’ve learned while writing this is that if I hadn’t already been sure that queer identity was protecting me, this would have done it. I started wanting to write a nice, fluffy fic about queers helping other queers, and quickly realized just how historically rare that really is. Non-heteronormative folks _being_ queers or LGBTQ+ or whathaveyou, together, is a relatively new phenomenon. Even the reclaimation of the word “queer” from its status as a slur has happened in my own lifetime, not to mention the other huge cultural shifts in how society views us. We’re an “us” now, although not everyone agrees. Myself, having seen the alternative, I’ve no wish to go back. If we don’t take care of each other, who will? We’re on our side, angels. 

_Out of your closets and into the street!_   
  
**Other helpful resources:**

[ http://rictornorton.co.uk/ ](http://rictornorton.co.uk/)

[ http://rictornorton.co.uk/eighteen/mother.htm ](http://rictornorton.co.uk/eighteen/mother.htm)

[ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_coffeehouses_in_the_17th_and_18th_centuries ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_coffeehouses_in_the_17th_and_18th_centuries)

[ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soho ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soho)

[ https://historicengland.org.uk/research/inclusive-heritage/lgbtq-heritage-project/meeting-and-socialising/bohemian-london/ ](https://historicengland.org.uk/research/inclusive-heritage/lgbtq-heritage-project/meeting-and-socialising/bohemian-london/)

[ https://www.advocate.com/news/2007/07/03/thousands-turn-out-london-gay-pride-parade-despite-terrorism-attempts?amp ](https://www.advocate.com/news/2007/07/03/thousands-turn-out-london-gay-pride-parade-despite-terrorism-attempts?amp)

[ https://lithub.com/a-brief-history-of-queer-language-before-queer-identity/ ](https://lithub.com/a-brief-history-of-queer-language-before-queer-identity/)

[ https://makinggayhistory.com/ ](https://makinggayhistory.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Talk meta with me on Discord and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wortlby2)


End file.
